Starving Artist
by Spunkay Skunk
Summary: All artists starve – some in more ways than others. AU Slash. / On hiatus! See profile.


Does that summary kind of suck? Sorry…

I love the idea of chef!Lelouch and Clovis/Lelouch (or Lelouch/Clovis, in this case) – so somehow these two likes came together in this marriage of a story idea, and I just went with it. I don't really have much else to say… I think this story will speak for itself. Oh, and I apologize if the beginning seems to ramble a bit – in all honesty, I think it does, and I also got a little parenthesis happy for some reason. I was just too lazy to fix it ;p

**Warnings**(these pertain to the entire fic)**: **To start, I'll say that the rating may go up, depending on how my confidence feels about writing any sort of lemons. As it stands now, there will be mentions of adult situations (see that kids? This is when you need to scram ;3) of which will be male/male. Language and incest are loitering around this fic too, be prepared for that. Blatant lack of culinary knowledge – I don't really know much about cooking (except from what I've learned from watching Food Network and Top Chef) as I do not cook. Also, I'm a vegetarian, so please excuse my poor (and at times, absent) meat descriptions. If there's anything else I've missed I'll be sure to mention it later. Bon appétit!

_[Disclaimer: I don't own Code Geass or its characters.]_

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_Starving Artist__: Appetizer_

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_Perfect. Absolutely Perfect_.

Those words, and those words alone, act as the description to the _marvelous_ sensations tantalizing his taste buds as he chews the last little bite _of heaven_ he had ordered from the menu. There are definitely infinite ways to properly describe the way the melting food in his mouth is as sumptuous to taste as it was to look at – which is equally important as the flavor – but amongst the plethora of words that swarmed his brain, only those two seemed to fit the best. They are short and sweet; and anyone who knew him – well or not – would understand immediately that the meal that once donned his (now completely spotless) plate is _nothing_ to overlook. They would know that such a compliment would mean that he felt such a feast deserves its _own _gallery and batch of guards. If in reality he could (although there isn't really anything that could stop him from doing it if he really wanted to) he would place this plate of _pure ambrosia_ he just ingested – _devoured_ – on the highest pedestal he could find and close it off with the finest of velvet (rope) in the biggest, most lavish room imaginable – and if he couldn't find one, he'd have no qualms about designing one _fit_ enough to house this… _breathtaking_ dish.

Clovis la Britannia sets his fork down as he thoughtfully chews and savors the very last morsel of his food. His usually smug expression is dissolving in the soft warmth of the candle light glow at the center of his table (a table for two) into a clear display of astonishment – _impressed_. His cerulean eyes gaze at the sad sight of his empty plate as his tongue weeps for more when he finally swallows that last delicious bite.

In all his life, he has never _ever_ tasted anything so delectable – so _orgasmic_ – as this dish; so, in accordance, he has never prolonged any meal he has participated in.

Never.

Which, isn't to say that he hasn't taken the time granted to him to truly enjoy and appreciate the food that has been served to him; he just has never had something so, _superlative_.

(He can only remember _one_ other time he has come to a complete standstill when eating a meal, but that was over a decade ago – however, he will _never_ forget the luscious flavors that sang together so harmoniously in his mouth. Clovis really was literally on the brink of tears when he had heard that chef had been removed (_banished_) from the palace. Her dishes could never be replaced – or forgotten – by his palate. In truth, he almost _held a grudge_ against his father for removing the deftest cook he'd ever see on the face of the Earth as long as he should live—)

But it appears he has, despite the astronomical odds (that existed entirely in his own head), found another proficient – if not better – chef. And it isn't as if Clovis hasn't searched – albeit not _very hard_ (after all, many of the cooks working at the palace are the best of the best – conversely still somehow always less than), but still hunted nonetheless. He has hit up every well-known, five star, grandiose, restaurant and/or eating establishment known in his homeland (and a few outside his land's borders), but none have ever delivered anything that could compare with what he has eaten this evening. They were all well and good, certainly deserving of their status; but none of them were able to grab hold of his every taste bud and soothe them like tiny masseuses were in his mouth, pleasuring each sensory bump. None of them were really worth noting – it was food he had tasted before, nothing special. He would have yawned at the end of every meal if it weren't so unbecoming to do so. All the places he has visited abroad were also the same – still quite excellent, but nothing that could compare to his extreme standards.

Safe to say, he hasn't seen much of a reason to wander off since.

So it probably figures that, for the first time in _years_, when he decided to broaden his horizons a little more, and come out of the _awful_ routine he had seemed to have gotten himself into, he would finally find that what he had been looking – _longing_ – for all along was right under his nose.

It is a picturesque little place that is very upscale but also very low key – that might not be the case after this visit from the Third Prince of Britannia hits the ears of rumor hounds; but at this moment it is because this charming little place is so intimate and off the grid that Clovis loves – aside from the outstanding cuisine – he is able to enjoy his meal in peace. (Despite the fact that he basks in the spotlight whenever it casts its attention beams down on him, there are times he values his privacy.) The staff is humble and very well-mannered – unobtrusive, would be the word. The clientele – while still stealing those not-so-secretive glances – know to keep to themselves (but who would really _dare_ bother a prince while he's dining?) and are just as classy as any other eatery he's sauntered into. The place is cozy, but luxurious; somehow finding that line in between lofty and lowly and riding it perfectly. The walls are a dark burgundy and the ceiling is low, but the chandeliers make it seem much higher – which are alight gently in their suspension. The tables are clothed with white, and spaced comfortably apart, but close enough so it doesn't feel as though one is drifting out to sea in the seemingly vastness of this dark cherry wood floor. Coinciding dark burgundy cloth napkins sit upon each table, before any customer is seated they are folded in intricate roses – a true art form in itself—

But the _real_ artwork that steals the show is the food. This is a dining experience that Clovis la Britannia shall never forget—

And one he has _no intention_ of letting come to an end.

He will order the same plate again when that blue haired waiter of his strolls around to inquire about his customer's desire for any desert this evening. Clovis isn't surprised by the young boy's odd but merry smile at the request, as he darts off to fulfill the order a second time. Clovis is amazed and yet not when he finds it to be equally as scrumptious as his first bite – if anything, it actually feels like the first time he's eaten it. How the chef is able to do this, Clovis isn't sure, but it is truly a masterpiece to behold. Unfortunately – and maybe not – he is not entirely able to finish his second plate – obviously his eyes (or perhaps his wonder) were bigger than his stomach. But he had anticipated this might happen, and so will not let this opportunity pass him by.

Clovis dabs the corner of his unsoiled napkin across his _clearly_ satisfied lips before placing it delicately on top of the pristine table, next to his crystal glass, and removes himself from the table (which he has eaten alone at this fine mid-autumn evening; which is a rarity for this social prince – as mentioned before, he can and does enjoy his privacy). He retrieves the plate from the table, eyeing the half-eaten seared sirloin steak (medium rare, at his request), watching the juices and seasonings (whatever magical mix of spices they are, Clovis is dying to know) from the meat swim together with that decadent red wine reduction sauce that carefully floods the edge of his crisp green Julienne salad (that has that sensational red wine vinaigrette); bridging the gap between them so carefully… If Clovis wasn't so _narcissistic_ and proud (or if he were in the same class level as a _commoner_) he might let the saliva pooling his mouth dribble unabashedly down his chin. He knows better than to sully his picture perfect reputation for just a cut of beef – even if it is magnificent beyond his grasp.

He strides across the floor, abandoning the gorgeous view that window was effortlessly displaying to him from the far wall, weaving so confidently through the tables – many, no, _all_ of the patrons dining watch him as he passes by. He slides that killer smug smile over his lips as he walks right by the servers and towards the kitchens doors. One or two of them would have asked him if anything is bothering him, but Clovis is still royalty – high ranking royalty at that – and most of them know they aren't really allowed to look at him directly, much less speak to him without permission (not that Clovis would really care if they did). He forces the sleek, but scuffed, metal swinging doors apart—

The intoxication… the fragrances dancing in the air hit him hard, but pleasantly so. There is also such a heavy, contagious, charge in this kitchen that Clovis nearly takes a step back as if it were pushing him out. Clouds of steam and bursts of fire meld with that electric tension flying through the aisles. Shouts clash together in a mosaic storm of voices that sound from random places about the kitchen like flashes of lightning sparking across a swelling gray sky. Only one voice, Clovis' ears notice, rumbles like deep pleasant thunder from somewhere deep within this tangled mess of noises. White-clad cooks are clanging their cookware against stove tops and grills; laboring over their creations to-be as if lost in their own worlds—

Or, they were until one of them spots Clovis strut in with his plate held delicately in hand. It only takes _one_ person to start a chain-reaction—

One that shatters through the steel kitchen; not that it really would have taken much effort, it is a fairly small kitchen. (He isn't technically allowed in here, of course; but being the Third Prince doesn't come without some liberties…) At any rate, the knowledge of his presence spreads like wild fire throughout this compact workspace – only that one loud low voice booms as the attention of these cooks dies away into a wash of silence that coats the room. It is a commanding tone that Clovis finds himself oddly drawn to, but he studies the stares studying him instead – all of them eyeing the plate being held daintily in his hand as if it were the plague…

They are no doubt thinking he – The Third Prince of this almighty nation of Britannia – is coming to unleash his disgust in a whirlpool of nicely phrased insults that scathe egos in unseen destruction; much like the way a cancerous illness will decay a body from the inside out. Truth is, they couldn't be more wrong. Regardless, he will let them cower in their mind's misplaced assumptions as that sly smile on his lips stretches wider—

Soon enough, those eyes that were cast unto the "plate of death" start to dart towards the back of the kitchen; cooks fidgeting in their stances like children who don't want the blame but don't want to tattle even though their body language and eyes have already snitched on their comrade – just as they were subtly supposed to. Clovis surveys the area, sure enough finding that lone source of what's left of the commotion clattering shallowly through the sudden stalled tension of this kitchen's air is his target.

Clovis meanders over to this lone man still laboring, his tall white hat swaying above the sea of hatless heads like a shark fin cutting through the water's surface. He holds his air of superiority strongly as he always does; so over-confident that a person could choke on the look of his face _alone_. He internally smirks madly as the cooks step aside (separating as if he is parting them like the red sea, his plate like a _staff_), revealing an evident path to the culprit responsible between their stone-faced walls. Clovis dilatorily strides through the aisle, not granting a single of the cooks with eye contact – because they're hooked on that one chef with no hopes of escaping. His steps are measured and proud, perhaps even a little too dramatic even for him; so when he finally reaches his destination, he can almost feel the silent relief that exhales from this kitchen. The man before him doesn't seem to be aware of his presence, _or_ he is deliberately ignoring it—

He is a tall, lean, young man – looking almost _too_ young – with jet black hair that is tossed around his face from his toils with unlucky strands caught and slathered on his perspiring brow looking like skinny black veins. His face is flushed from the heat and pressure clouding and throbbing in this kitchen, but the rouge looks striking against his fair skin. When this beautifully flustered lad finally tosses his eyes towards Clovis, the prince catches a glimpse of the stunning fierceness resonant in his gemstone violets; all at once the powerful stare and its blended hues renders Clovis dumbstruck a moment, his imagination lapsing into a pleasant stupor at the sight – which tugs at a mental string in Clovis' mind, but he pushes that aside for there is a more pressing matter at hand—

Clovis offers a tamer smile than what he had presented to the rest of the cooks – which have crowed around the two, at this point – but it is still reeking of that airy quality that blew the hectic haze away from this kitchen. The chef eyes him unpleasantly with a knot in his brow, but Clovis just keeps smiling as he lifts the plate in his hand gracefully up to eye level. Before Clovis speaks, he notices how those amethysts don't even sink to observe the plate, not backing down from the stare Clovis is holding against him.

"Are you responsible for this?" Clovis asks mildly, to keep the predictions of every witness in limbo.

"Is there a problem?" that splendid voice booms again, carrying a note of repugnance—

His eyes not taking a glance at the plate Clovis pointedly accentuates with a slight rotation as it perches on his fingertips, "Not at all," Clovis remarks, smiling. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I've come to pay homage to you – you see, this," he lifts the plate a bit higher, causing the young chef to drop his gaze briefly, "is the _best_ thing I have ever eaten."

A hushed murmur of gasps and words flutter through their audience. The young chef doesn't seem to be impressed.

"I'm thankful for your compliment, but if you wanted to give your gratitude you could have requested that the servers do so. You are holding up the kitchen and we are very busy. Not to mention that you're not authorized to be back here." He utters brashly – causing many of the other cooks to look at him as if he just spat on the _Third Prince's_ face. Clovis, however, is not offended; he is actually amused by this.

"My apologies, chef," Clovis says smoothly dismissing the tension that suddenly clenched the room—

"All of you! Back to work!" the young chef commands, his thunderous voice rattling Clovis a bit at the unexpected burst. He doesn't need to roar another word though; all of his subordinates scurry back to their places and attend the work they'd neglected. Then, the chef turns away from Clovis – _turns away from __**Clovis la Britannia**_ – to get back to work.

That's all it took to rub out Clovis' existence in the kitchen as if he had never entered – although, there are still a few wary eyes watching him – like he was a meager stain on their patchwork kitchen. His lower lip curls slightly, now feeling minor resentment that this _boy_ – he can't be very old, not older than Clovis at least – has the nerve to brush him off. He stands there somehow feeling like a stick in the mud – or a wrench in this well oiled, smooth running clockwork movement ticking through the kitchen.

He narrows his eyes slightly for a second before he steps aside – _out of the way_ – to engage with this brazen man, "I'm sorry, what is your name?"

He answers not missing a beat in this pumping organ they call a kitchen, "Lelouch Lamperouge," – is the quick, _somewhat_ _snippy_ answer.

"Pardon me, chef," Clovis addresses, stress stretching his patient tone (ignoring why the name "Lamperouge" rings a bell), "I do not mean to bother you, I just wanted to deliver my thanks in person."

He doesn't look at the prince, "I understand," he swiftly jerks a sauté pan, making its contents – some vegetables, from the looks of it – fly out and rain back into the pan.

Clovis' lips _might_ pout at how offhanded this chef is still being – he isn't used to _this_ type of behavior barking at him, after all.

"This is not the only reason I am visiting you, however. I have a proposition for you that I'm sure you will not be able to refuse." Clovis slips on a debonair smile over his lips when the chef glances at him.

He seems to repress a sigh, "Now really isn't the best time for chatting. If you could please return to your table, I will visit you when I get the chance. If you don't mind waiting, that is," he mutters out the last part, regarding the many pans and pots cluttered before him, poking and prodding this and that before looking at Clovis – for affirmation, the prince assumes.

He nods gently, "Yes, I can wait I suppose," as if he'd ever pass up this opportunity, but he doesn't want to seem too eager – _desperate_ – either. "Please do make it as quickly as possible. I cannot wait around all night," he waves his hand in the air, letting his voice ring flippantly – knowing how much of a blatant lie that was; Clovis has nothing _but_ time.

The chef just stares at him rather blandly before he nods as well – pretty much using that silent moment between them to calculate just _how long_ he will be making the prince wait.

"Yes, your highness," he says evenly, looking away, back to his work. Really, if he's trying to tempt a person with an offer, shouldn't he be less… snobbish?

Clovis grins pleasantly, inwardly happy to learn that this chef actually _is _aware that royalty was speaking to him, and saunters out of the moody kitchen. He will never understand how so many people can work in such a small place in such strange vibes. Of course, all artists have methods to their madness – but with Clovis, it isn't necessarily the health of his _work space_ that he should worry about.

Chef Lamperouge sends an eagle eye through the gaps between the many heads and shelves at the prince, breathing a heavy sigh after the man finally exists the kitchen – whether that sigh is exasperated or not, it is hard to tell. He wipes his forehead with the white sleeve of his chef garb, ignoring the _obvious_ stares radiating around him. He knows exactly what they're thinking, none of them need to voice it, and by the glare he's sure to send subtly around the kitchen, they know they don't need to either.

This isn't the first time he's been sought out by a satisfied customer.

—x—

Hours later, when Chef Lamperouge's work day is over – which, coincidentally, is long after the restaurant has closed for the night – he marches out of the kitchen, half-surprised to see that _insufferable _prince lounging at a table towards the center of the room. Of course, Lelouch doesn't know this man _personally_, but he is good at reading people (and even if he hasn't suffered through dozens of wasted airspace spent gabbing on about this socialite on the news) he knows that this prince is more full of himself than _Narcissus_. His _highness_ is all alone (hm, _also_ like Narcissus) holding that dainty wine glass in his long elegant fingers as he delicately swirls that rich red liquid around. The air around him is as stifling haughty as it was in the kitchen, except out here it can flourish in all this vacant restaurant space; bloom like a flower that's too selfish to share its _bed_ with any other plant.

He resists the urge to growl when their eyes connect – Lelouch would really rather not pamper any prissy guest this evening, especially not any prince whose got his head too far up his own a—

"Chef Lamperouge," the prince greets stately – almost sounding like a "What a pleasant surprise to see you here" as he sets his glass down on the table, effectively cutting off Lamperouge's _objectionable_ thoughts. "It seems you're quite the dedicated worker."

There is a hint of wry amusement in his voice, and Lelouch knows exactly what that tone is _hinting_.

"I apologize for the wait," he says robotically, as he approaches the table, "I hope it didn't inconvenience you."

"Not at all," he waves it off, "Turns out my plans weren't as important as I thought." And by "plans" he means the rest of the night which consisted of the drive home, idly wandering about his private villa, and then mind-numbing hours staring at a piece of work that has smashed him with some artists' block. "It actually gave me some time to think about some things…" he pauses a second, looking up at the stony man looming over him. "Please, have a seat," he insists casually – not sure if the chef was indeed waiting for the invitation or not.

Lelouch sends a glance over his shoulder, to a green haired woman lingering on the path he had strayed from. She nods at him wordlessly and then quietly exits the place; Lamperouge waits until she leaves, before he takes the available seat opposite Clovis. He notes that a plate rests in front of the prince, bearing the disassembled remnants of the meal he had strolled in to the kitchen with hours prior. It looks as though he'd simply been playing with his leftovers during his _musings_.

"What things were you able to think about, if I may ask?"

Clovis grins lightly, "Your name, for one."

"My name?" Lelouch asks incredulously.

Clovis nods, "Yes, your name. When you said before that your name is 'Lamperouge' a notable ring rang throughout my head – and then I remembered why. Lamperouge is the name of our old head chef back at the palace. She was a _brilliant _cook that I am very envious of and greatly admire – I'm actually a bit ashamed that I have forgotten her name. The only reason I didn't remember is because she insisted that we call her by her first name, Marianne, not Lamperouge. And then of course, she had the nick-name we fondly referred to her as—"

"Marianne the flash," Lelouch cuts in tonelessly.

Clovis's smile turns a bit sour at the interruption, "Yes, that's it. So, I have to ask, is there any relation or do you know her, by any chance?"

He doesn't respond, an unreadable expression – a taste of something unpleasant, is certainly there – slowly congeals over his face.

"What is it you wanted to talk about, your highness?" Lelouch asks instead, fixing the prince with a stare as dead as his voice.

Clovis inwardly grimaces, "Ah, yes, the proposal." He takes a sip of his wine, realizing the blatant avoidance and wondering why it has set him on edge. He sets his glass down with a low thump as he looks at those deep brooding eyes, the strange feeling of his words sticking on his tongue kinks the flow of conversation. He takes a second sip. "Not one for small talk, are you?" he asks playfully as he places his glass back on the table; not expecting answer – which he doesn't receive. "Well, to cut a long story short," It should be said that Clovis loves to talk, so when he cuts to the chase, it also cuts his heart. "I've been searching for quite some time for an _extraordinary_ talent as yours – a diamond in the rough of sorts. Now that I've found you, I'm not willing to let you go."

Lelouch arcs his eyebrow disconcertedly – what is this, a confession to a potential kidnapping?

"Do you enjoy your work here, chef?"

Lelouch's brow crinkles (in a very cute way, Clovis notes mildly), "Why?"

"It's just a harmless question. Are you satisfied with your current status in life?"

"My status?" he repeats resentfully. "What is this? Are you coming on to me?"

Clovis practically chokes on air—

"This is a strange way to propose to someone…"

"You are mistaken," Clovis mutters out. "This isn't _that_ type of proposal. I am merely trying to recruit you. I was sincere about what I said in the kitchen all those hours ago, and I believe that I will never be happy with my meal unless you're the one to prepare them. I am offering you the position of being my personal chef."

Lelouch's tone is hard and cool as he speaks, "You're offering this to me when you've only tasted one dish I've made. For all you know today could just have been a good day versus the _many_ bad days I have in the kitchen."

"I can tell the difference between luck and skill, please do not _mock_ me."

Chef Lamperouge presses his lips together into a firm line.

"And I know your skill is unlike any other I have come across. Yours is just… Well, I would be a great fool to pass this opportunity up. As would you."

"_I_ would?"

Clovis nods, "As far as your career goes, there isn't a better way to climb up. You'd be working for royalty, and not just any royal, the third prince. That isn't something people sneeze at. And with this boost, you'd certainly go farther than you'd ever dreamed… Of course you would also have free room and board, no longer paying a single expense and you would have a limitless budget for all your culinary needs." Yes Clovis knows he's coming off as conceited, but he's trying to make a point.

"I understand the _pros_ of working for someone of your _status_, but I would be a personal chef – and didn't you say you'd never be happy with a meal unless I was the one to prepare it? Doesn't that mean you'd want to keep me all to yourself?"

Clovis is caught with that one.

"You would still be able to advance regardless. And it isn't as if I can stake you and lay claim to your work. You'd be free to do as you wish."

"But still under you, specifically." It wasn't a question. Lelouch is no idiot; he knows when someone is trying to rope him in.

"Yes…" Clovis says at length.

Lelouch shakes his head gently, "Listen, I'm flattered that you want me to work for you, I am, but you aren't the only one who has given me these same gilded offers – and I don't like it when others try to hold leverage over me." He stands up, "I'm sorry, but I'll have to decline."

Clovis also stands, "You don't have to decide now." He hands over a small white card he pulled out of his _princely_ attire, acting as if he hadn't heard a rejection, "You can take as long as you like to think about it. Just promise me that you will."

Chef Lamperouge hesitates a moment, really wanting to just go home and wash himself of this whole evening; but he takes it anyway.

Clovis smiles much like an appeased child would, "And should you have any questions, any at all, just call that number and you will get your answers."

He nods, making a show of glancing over the number on the card before looking up at the prince – a _gesture_ isn't a lie.

"Very good. I'll be looking forward to hearing from you, then." Clovis turns on his heel—

Lamperouge isn't sure, but he might see a spring in the prince's step as he leaves the empty restaurant.

—x—

"Are you sure that was wise, your highness? After all, you don't know anything about him."

Clovis leers lightly as he looks out at the night-life of the city they're driving through – it's a rather nice scene, shame he didn't bring his camera…

"Not to worry, Jeremiah. I'm sure he isn't some terrorist in disguise or something…" he drawls without looking at his teal-haired guard.

The other man is mirthless, "You take these matters too lightly…" He leans back in his seat across from Clovis, putting his elbow on the door-handle and rubbing his temples, "Always doing as you please… I'm beginning to wonder why I don't have gray hair yet."

(For the record, Jeremiah Gottwald is pretty much the only person, outside of family, that Clovis allows speak to him this way. He likes to think they have a more casual relationship.)

"You're not much older than I am, don't act like such an old man. You need to relax more…"

Jeremiah sends him a critical orange glance, "Easy to say when you're not responsible for anyone's life."

Clovis looks away from the window, grinning at Jeremiah, "Honestly Jeremiah, you don't need to make a mountain out of a molehill – and it isn't as if I didn't take you into consideration when I came to my decision."

He lifts his head, "What do you mean by that, my lord?"

Clovis smirks and closes his eyes, "Who would be better to conduct the _interview_ than my faithful protector?" he says easily.

Jeremiah's face smoothes into a bland visage, "…Of course, your highness" And that seems to be all he can say in response.

—x—

Walking through his condo door well after midnight isn't an uncommon occurrence for Lelouch Lamperouge; in fact, it is more of a rarity to come home _before_ midnight. His work days are often long, hard, and exhausting – and with the added bonus of customers (and work-staff alike) lunging at him left and right as if he were a bleeding carcass in a tank full of sharks, it only skyrockets his stress level. These aren't situations he cannot handle, quite the contrary, he's a master and rejection, but, it is a superfluous labor he doesn't need to dirty his hands with.

So the moment he steps through that threshold into his cold, quiet, _orderly_, condo it's like walking through a crisp waterfall that cleans away all his anxiety and fatigue. It is that simple pleasure he looks forward to at the end of the day; feeling that relief after a hard day's work—

Not to be confused, he does _love_ his work, more than most people would probably understand, but even the things one enjoys can get… tiring.

So, Lelouch slides his key into his lock, halfheartedly listening to his assistant (because calling her a _sous chef_ would be a disgrace to the title) complain about the absurdity of closed pizzerias and why they should stay open for twenty-four hours. His key clicks into the lock, but no feeling hitches when he turns it to the side—

The door is already unlocked.

He pulls it out, and twists the knob, stepping over the line dividing the desert from his oasis—

Not entirely surprised to see a Japanese brunette standing a bit abashedly in the heart of his revitalizing spring, holding a medium-sized brown cardboard box in his arms.

Lelouch lets the door glide open silently away from his grasp as his work partner nudges in behind him – already, he can feel that sweet brisk rush deplete from his skin as a dark cloud forms over his head. _This _was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now – if he had known this would be waiting for him when he got home, drying up his refreshing oasis, he might have extended that talk with Clovis; that conversation could have gone on a lot longer if Lelouch had let it (if he wasn't in such a damn hurry to get home).

Golden eyes meet green as the shortest third party closes the door behind her, Lelouch with his back to the parasite eating the immunity of his apartment as he removes his white scarf and black coat, hanging them on the coat rack beside the door. The area has quickly become flooded with tension, making it almost impossible to _move_.

"Suzaku," she says casually, stepping away from the door.

His tries to smile warmly, "C.C." but it appears sad instead. "…You two were working late again, huh?"

She nods—

The sound of Lelouch removing his shoes thuds loudly behind her, "That never changes," he steely says as he walks behind her without a glance at the other male.

He rubs his lips together as his eyes follow Lelouch towards the open kitchen.

"Actually," she chimes in sounding mildly pleasant, "Lelouch was speaking with a potential client, another aristocrat who wants to hire him personally." She smirks cattily as she watches Lelouch from the corner of her eye as he rummages through some cupboards for a glass – pretending to busy himself. "One Clovis la Britannia, to be exact."

Suzaku looks at her, "Is that so?" he asks, his voice sounding so small…

She nods again, folding her arms, "He is very interested, that prince. He even waited until closing time to speak with Lelouch personally."

Suzaku smiles a bit more brightly – a genuine smile, even if it is strained, "That's a great opportunity for you," he turns his head, looking at Lelouch—

Who still has his back turned as he opens the freezer door of his refrigerator. He says nothing in return; seemingly ignoring their presence in his apartment.

Flat silence settles over them for a _painful_ lag of time—

Until Suzaku shifts the box he's holing in his arms, digging into his pocket, "I was just getting the rest of my stuff; I let myself in because no one was here. But it's probably better that we're seeing each other, that way I can give you the key," he holds up a bare silvery key as he cradles the box in one arm. "I didn't really want to leave it in the mailbox, so…"

"Just leave it on the counter," Lelouch instructs callously, keeping his back facing Suzaku as he drops ice-cubes into his short glass, their bulky tinkling sounds crack through the sparse conversation.

Suzaku stares at the back of his head a second or two, looking like he _might _have something to say – a million different emotions flying across his eyes – before he places the key on the dark granite countertop between him and Lelouch. He collects the box in both his arms, holding his gaze on the man that won't return it.

"Ok then," he says almost to himself as he finally looks away, finding C.C.'s stare on him. "I'll just get going."

He walks away towards the door, getting only a polite farewell from C.C. before he shuts it behind him. She walks backwards until her legs hit the barstool Suzaku had been standing behind, seating herself in it and swiveling to the side to look at Lelouch—

He's setting his glass on the counter, unscrewing a bottle of scotch he took from the top of the fridge – that shinning metal key lying just in front of them. He pours it into his cup, and she watches the honey colour trickle over the stack of ice and pool at the bottom. C.C. then watches the glass move up in his hand and touch his lips, slanting as he takes a sip. They stare at each other emotionlessly – _coldly_ – as he drinks.

"That's one way to deal with it," she mutters, looking away from him as he lowers the glass.

"Don't preach to me, witch," Lelouch also mutters, walking around the island into the living room, dropping himself heavily on the slate gray sofa – everything in his condo is neutrally coloured, from his metallic appliances, his gray furniture, white washed walls, to the cold black-galaxy granite floor tiles. Some say it looks very chic, others say it feels very sterile.

"I wouldn't dream of it," she jests dryly, moving to lean over him from behind the couch. C.C. grabs his glass just as he is about to take another drink; grinning as he frowns up her.

"At least get your own glass…"

She swallows a rather large gulp that elicits a hiss from her throat.

"No, I just wanted a _sip_."

He isn't amused as he reclaims his cup, "Just a sip," he complains under his breath, refilling his cup and then placing the bottle on the glass coffee table in front of him.

She smirks at him, ruffling the hair on his head, "So, you gonna sit out here and sulk all night?"

Lelouch shirks his head away from her _toying_ hand, "I'm _not_ sulking." He claims defiantly as he emphatically snatches the TV remote form the table and turns it on. The sound of a local anchorwoman regurgitating news stories gently begins to flow from the TV as the picture grows brighter. "I have no reason to."

"Fine, brood. Whatever you want to call it…" She blows out jadedly, staring down at the highlights on the crown of his midnight hair. "Are you even interested in the job?"

He shrugs, "Not really…"

"I think you should take it. Why not travel an easy path for once."

"I suppose a _dead-end _path would be an easy one to travel," Lelouch grumbles a little into his glass before he drinks again. "Since it won't be taking you anywhere."

"So what?" she retorts coolly. "Freeload for a while, think of it like a vacation – you'd be able to get away from things for a bit."

He scoffs, "A vacation where I have to labor for _his highness_ – I'd rather stab myself in the eye." He knocks back another sip. "And I knew I shouldn't have told you about it, now you're never going to leave me alone, are you? Unlike you, being a human sponge isn't my life-goal."

C.C. scowls at him tamely as he smiles to himself after insulting her, and she takes aim to shoot something at him for that (she has plenty of ammo for him)—

"…You even told Suzaku. It's not like it's really any of his business anymore."

—But the soft sound of his voice keeps her safety lock on.

"I was just making conversation," she defends meekly.

"No, you were deliberately telling him something he has no need to know – and you were doing it only to spite me."

She folds her arms again, leaning her hips against the backbone of the sofa, "I don't see why he shouldn't know, it's not some big secret."

"Secret or not, he gave up the right to know anything about me when he left." Lelouch practically sneers as he refills his glass again.

C.C. just stares down at his head; the useless sound of news-anchors prattling fluctuates from the TV during the quiet moment between them.

"How long has his stuff been lying around here anyway? It has been a while since he left, hasn't it?"

Lelouch brings the refilled cup to his mouth, watching the weather forecast with blind eyes. He's mute a minute.

"It's been _months_, I'm happy to finally see the rest of his belongings go." He says finally before he swigs a bit of scotch. "It couldn't have been soon enough, in my opinion." He presses the volume button on the remote, effectively signaling the end of conversation as the chummy weatherman's voice reverberates within his _spacious_ condo.

She looks unconvinced, but doesn't contradict him.

"Right, well, I'm stealing the first shower and your bed." C.C. informs, drifting away from him, her voice floating freely through the air.

Lelouch slowly lowers his hand to his lap, the melting ice clinking faintly when it hits. He tosses the remote onto the table, hating how loud it bangs against the glass. He tries to focus on the TV, on that cold-front that is supposed to be pushing through strongly for most of the week, how that amiable man in his tan tweed suit makes humorless jokes while he conducts his hypothesized weather display. Lelouch tries to concentrate on the frosty precipitation coating the outside of his glass and the way his drink burns down his throat, on the sting that sizzles his feelings into submission—

But it only seems to remind him of all the things he wants to forget – or at least just not think about right now. Suzaku, Clovis – and his _nerve_ to bring up—

He is about to take another acidic sip when his cell phone buzzes in his pocket. He fishes it out unenthusiastically along with his wallet and a random scrap of paper, looking at the name flashing on the screen after he opens the phone with even less enthusiasm. A conversation with _that _blond is one he definitely doesn't have the energy for right now. So, Lelouch dumps his phone onto the table, ignoring the rattling animating sluggishly over the glass; looking over the crinkled paper—

Reading a phone number he distinctly remembers skimming over earlier. It's that prince's card – Lelouch didn't even bother to put it in his wallet, he just shoved it in his pants as he caught up with C.C. He gazes at it blankly, taking his delayed drink – the noise of the TV already lost in his ears as his inner gears start to spin…

After a long moment, he tosses the card onto the table with his wallet, and moves to lie down on the couch with a heavy exhale of relaxation. Lelouch stares sideways at the TV, holding his drink on the crest of his chest; still trying to give a damn about the news report that's being reviewed.

\  
x  
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_TBC…_

* * *

(_Hey Lelouch… what's up with you and Suzaku?_)

Yeah, I know that terrorist bit is lame, but I just couldn't help myself.

This came to me _months _ago when I was writing a one-shot with Clovis and Lelouch (which I may or may not post) and I just couldn't bat it away any longer. Also, I had originally envisioned this as a three part story, but I don't have the energy to write three long ass parts – believe me, they would have been _long_. I'm also quite impatient, and just wanted to get this out. I'm not sure if I've captured Clovis, I mean, this is how he is in my _head_ but I don't know about him as far as canon goes; he wasn't a major player, so I guess I'm close… And I know that CG has _Star Trek_ swishy doors, but I've decided to ignore that because keys have more symbolism than futuristic technology =3. (And it should be obvious by now that I'm just _incapable _of getting away from Lelouch/Suzaku – but it seems like Lelouch can't either, so I guess it's ok.)

In case you don't know the term "sous chef" it pretty much means assistant chef – which is why Lelouch only called C.C. his _assistant_ ^^.

Anyway, thanks for reading! If you're hungry for more, leave a review!  
-Spunkay Skunk


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